


party tattoos

by ObliqueOptimism



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied General Bad Stuff Done To Klaus, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Not Beta Read, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliqueOptimism/pseuds/ObliqueOptimism
Summary: Vanya gets a visitor late at night, and comes to realize she never truly understood Klaus after all.
Comments: 37
Kudos: 327





	party tattoos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [villklovn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/villklovn/gifts).



> i was listening to dodie's song "party tattoos" and this sort of came to mind. thanks to MildeAmasoj for helping come up with ideas at 1.30 am. apparently i'd needed to take a break from writing fluff because i spent two days writing on paragraph for jackson's fic but then this gets done very quick. This is set before the show, but just after Vanya's book came out.

There was a knock at her door. Vanya stilled. It was late. Or early? That time of night where it was both. Either something bad had happened or someone has shown up at her’s drunk. Would be the first time she had bad news at her door, but not the first time some people got the wrong address. 

They knocked again.

She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and got up. She’d been up late reading. Her publisher sent her memoir to read, they wanted a quote from her for the back of the book. It was a very dry memoir so far, she wasn’t too fond of it. Kept falling asleep. 

At least this person would cause a small distraction.

The person knocked a third time.

Vanya opened her door slightly. “Klaus?” It was both bad news and a drunk. 

He grinned wide at her and held up HELLO in greeting. She opened the door wider. How he found her place, she didn’t know. He’d shown up a few times before, to rest for the night, usually disappearing with stolen money or items before she woke, but that was before she moved. Before the book.

Even though she knew he’d do the same once more, it was nice that he came to her. She always ended up regretting letting him in, but she couldn’t turn him away. Not like they always had to her. 

He slunk in.

His eyes were too bright, as he cast them around her place, pausing to look at a few items she had laying around. She should say goodbye to them tonight. They’d be gone by morning. 

In the light of her apartment, no longer hidden by doorway shadows, she finally got a good look at him. 

Only he didn’t

_look good_

He was covered in bruises and glitter. His make up was smeared, as if he or someone else took their hand and swiped across his face, leaving a streak of it in its wake. Some of it was still in tact, but a hand had, at some point, traveled across his face. His shirt was ripped. She didn’t and couldn’t know if it was meant to be torn for fashion or if something had happened. 

She could count his ribs through the tear.

The bruises were hand shaped.

She wanted to yell, to scream at him. She felt like she’d be sick, thinking about how her brother got to be this way. 

Unknown to her turmoil, he was humming a song, shaking his hips to the beat. 

He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

It wasn’t winter yet, but come a few days it would be.

She wanted to cry.

“You’re hurt. I’ll get some ice for the bruises,” she said, turning towards her fridge.

“We’re not bruised,” Klaus stated, his stare intense, “they’re just party tattoos.” His gaze slid to the side, “And that colorful mess, is just colorful regret.” A sharp grin.

She wasn’t sure if the _we_ he spoke of was the royal we or if he was talking for himself as well as other party goers. Or himself as well as ghosts. Where they covered in bruises?

As he hummed out the next line of the song, he looked back at her, his grin softening to a heartbreaking smile. He gently put GOOD BYE on her arm. His fingers were like ice. “You don’t want these tattoos either, darling sister.”

She swallowed. 

At the time she had wanted the Umbrella Academy tattoo. She still sort of did. It hurt being left out. But now? She wondered what it cost her siblings. In her darkest moments, she thought of it as a brand. _Their father branded them._ But he didn’t care enough about her to claim her as well.

When he lifted his hand off her arm, he left glitter in his wake.

“I’ll get you ice,” she repeated.

“Don’t bother, dear,” he sounded lazy, almost bored. “I spent so much time at the tattoo parlor. There are far too many party tattoos for any ice to help. In time they will heal and the ink will bleed into my skin.” 

He giggled.

She shivered.

She went to get ice. 

When she turned around, ice in hand, she saw him staring at her coffee table. Where the manuscript she’d been reading lay. 

“Oh? Reading are we? Anything you’d recommend?” his head was tilted to the side, tone airy and light.

“Not really. My uh, my publisher wanted me to read it to get a quote of what I thought,” she near whispered.

“Honey, they don’t want to know what you _actually_ thought of the book. You can just lie about how much you liked that blather and not finish it. Especially if it’s not good. I don’t suggest finishing books that don’t give you joy.”

“Um, did you-- Did you read my book? Finish it, I mean?” The ice felt so cold her skin was on fire, waiting for a reply. She wasn’t sure which answer she wanted more.

“No.”

_“Oh.”_

“I would have you know, I did get joy from how you tore into father and lay him bare over hot coals, give the man shoes made of iron and make him dance in the fires of hell,” Klaus took the ice from her hands and put it to a dark bruise that sat high on his hip, peering over his pants that sat low. The fingers of the bruise clear, a nebula of color resting on his skin. _This party tattoo_ telling a story Klaus would not. “Those busybody’s at rehab took it away you see. Said dwelling on how you saw me would not help me see the real me. Ha! To think that words as told by someone I once knew could coil around me and hide my horrid self in their clutches.” His gaze locked on hers once more, “To think that what you thought of me was worse than this real Klaus they spoke of. Silly of them. Hopeful, but oh so _silly._ ”

His hands shook as he held the ice.

She looked down, not wanting to see the bruises, the smeared make up, the ripped shirt. Instead she saw his bare feet. One of his toenails was split. 

“Why don’t you have any shoes?”

“I have a friend. She claims she’s psychic. I have my doubts but then I can see the dead so who am I to judge. She says when I die, the only thing taken from me is my boots. I can’t have that you see, I own so few things as it is. I would be sad to see someone take my boots from me, when I would only be able to scream at them and not be heard. For I am the only one who hears the dead. What happens when the speaker to the dead joins them? No one speaks to them, they scream, unheard, unloved, undone. They are but memories, that get twisted and reshaped by the living, for the living something better than they once were, for the dead they are now something hideous. To scream and plead and beg but no one listens? No one cares? I have had enough of that in my existence, I do not wish for more of it when I die.” He shrugged, “I have had enough taken from me in life, and I don’t want that in death. I’d much rather have nothing to lose. _So no boots to steal_.”

The idea of someone who isn’t part of the Academy having some sort of powers when she didn’t-- when she was one of the of 43 but still didn’t-- not like the others-- it _upset_ her.

“She’s at rehab at lot, my friend,” Klaus’s voice got far away. Vanya calmed herself knowing that this friend was from rehab. She couldn’t be psychic, she was just a junkie, like Klaus. Lost along the way. She probably got high and then claimed her hallucinations were visions. “Those wonderful finger curls in her hair. How strange she always has them done perfectly. I never am perfect. Not in rehab, not in life. Rehab tends to take and take and take from you,” he reached out and took her hand. His fingers on his free hand were still cold. She glanced at the other. Skin purple at the handprint bruise, skin purple where his hand met the ice. She took the ice from him. “I am a mess tied together with a little hope and twine but _Darla?_ With her pretty hair, her pretty yet dated dress, always on her way to a roaring 20’s party? A red necklace she never can take off? She is stunning and we wish we could be like her. Never one to follow the rules, our Darla. Showing up to group late, running through the wall to get there. A short cut. No one saves her a seat but me.”

Vanya felt cold. She took both of his hands in hers. The chill from his fingers seeping into hers. 

Darla was a ghost. Klaus wanted to be like her, but she was dead. He spoke of her as if she was alive. Vanya almost cried when he nodded to himself and started humming again. His fingers twitched to the time of the song in her grasp. 

Her brother didn’t realize Darla was dead. If this was a side effect of being high, being an addict, or if it’s simply that he was always surrounded by the dead it became hard for him to know, she wasn’t sure. She hoped it wasn’t the last. She’d been lost surrounded by powered siblings, the idea of being lost surrounded by dead was devastating. 

How long ago had he lost himself? She knew their dad experimented on him the most, the evidence was clear. He’d pulled away, turned to drugs, became cruel. He’d laughed at her, he’d been mean, he could cut you with words like Diego could with his knives. A clean cut that could leave you bleeding. Then he’d show up later, as if he hadn’t hurt you, he’d be asking for comfort that he hadn’t deserved. 

But maybe he had deserved it. Maybe he hadn’t known what he was doing. She wasn’t dumb. She knew some of what he’d gone through as a child. She’d stay up and make Five sandwiches, he’d sneak in, using the training their father forced on the powered siblings. She sometimes saw him and he hadn’t--

God why had never put together that he was 13, 14, 15--

_covered in party tattoos_

How could he cope, how would she cope in his shoes, to be the one surrounded by so many people that only he could see. She had been one surrounded by six and that was difficult. She’d turned in on herself, taken her medicine, played the violin. Klaus seemed to seek out the living, make noise, be loud and vibrant. 

Was that why he was here tonight? He was seeking out the living? He had given himself over to those at whatever party he’d gone to. They’d held him down and took and took and took. The ghosts that followed Klaus seemed to take and take and take. Was there anything left of her brother? He let himself fall to the wayside. It hurt, knowing that he willingly gave himself out like this. 

Did he come to her so he would feel real? Reality orientate himself? He’d been lost in the sea of hands and ghosts and glitter.

“It wasn’t a small feat,” Klaus said, turning to face her again. She’d lost track of how long she stood in silence as he hummed to himself. “The book, of course. Of course, _of course._ What I did manage to read was spellbinding. And that was with me knowing what came next. I lived it, same as you. _Well_ , not the same. We had very different lives in that dusty mansion. You had safety and warmth and us turning our backs, pushing you down, seeing how you were treated and taking out the unfairness on you. Of course you wrote a book, stabbed us in the back. It’s what you could see, of course, _of course._ Screaming it in our faces would have been kinder but we didn’t deserve any kindness. You do, you did amazing. You wrote a book! How talented you are, writing and music. The muses are busy with you,” he winked. 

“Thank you?” She was unsure. He seemed proud of her, giving a soft smile and kind eyes as he spoke of her stabbing them in the back. She could have gone to Luther, to Diego, tried to get to Allison and yell at them when her feelings bubbled over instead of writing a book. But the world got to know her siblings names, why couldn’t they also know hers? It was only fair.

“Very proud of you, sister mine. Never forget. You hold that okay? I’ve never once had someone proud of me, so you take this, alright? You take the fact that at least we are proud of you and you lock it up. _Keep it safe._ Don’t let anyone reach in and take away your achievements. They are yours to keep. You have left a mark on the world, Vanya. On the people around you. _Congradulations._ ”

She didn’t feel like she should be congratulated.

He turned his head sharply to the side, eyebrows raised. She shivered, imagining it as a ghost. Was her apartment haunted? The idea that someone could be watching her put he on edge. She’d left the Academy, she didn’t like being watched all the time. 

“We came to say that,” he twisted to see her again, shirt riding up and showing off more bruises. She thought one on his chest looked like a boot. She could see the tread in the nebula of party tattoos. “Congratulations on the book. You did brilliantly. May we all join daddy with iron shoes, dancing til we fall.” He made his way towards the door.

“Wait,” Vanya put a hand on the back of his shoulder. He was trembling. She couldn't see it, but she could feel it. “Stay the night and get some sleep. Or let me get you something to eat? When is the last time you ate something?”

He didn’t turn around, “Do you have hot chocolate?” His voice sounded small, vulnerable. A tone she hadn’t heard him use in years. It made her think of when they were children, when he would come home at age 13, she had made Five’s sandwich. As he snuck in once, he was shaking apart. She’d made him hot chocolate. She had to hold the mug alongside him so he wouldn’t burn himself. He’d looked so young then. _Something_ had happened. She’d hope it meant he’d stop. 

Only the next night he came home again, in almost the same state as the night before.

Knowing what she knew now about what he’d probably been through--

She wished she’d done more than hot chocolate.

“Of course. Sit down, I’ll make us some.”

She left him to go into the kitchen. She saw him leaning on the arm of her sofa. Maybe she could do more than hot chocolate now. He didn’t hate her because of her book. She’d thought she would burn any bridges she had left with her siblings when she published it. But she’d _needed_ her voice heard. She’d been silenced her whole life. Only her violin doing the talking for her, but so many didn’t take the time to listen passed the songs she played. 

Maybe she and Klaus could help each other. 

Maybe one day she could be the first person proud of him, as he was the first person proud of her.

Two mugs of hot chocolate in her hands, she went back to the living room.

It was empty. No Klaus. The only signs he’d been there was the glitter he’d left, the mug in her hand, and her missing knicknacks.

**Author's Note:**

> obliqueoptimism @ tumblr


End file.
